Keeping the Promise: The Story of MIA Jerry Elliott, a Family Shattered by His Disappearance, and a Sister's 40-Year Search for the Truth

by Elliott Donna E.

  DoD assigned each POW/MIA a case reference number by incident, which often represents more than one individual. Billy Hill and Jerry were assigned Case 1000. Three years had passed since Jerry went missing. There were only sporadic communications from the military during this period. We received no new facts concerning Case 1000. Jerry had seemingly disappeared into thin air. There was little we could do except wait and hope.

  My introduction to VVAW came by way of an unexpected visit at work by three Vietnam veterans. Asked if I would be willing to help “end the war and bring our brothers home,” they explained Vietnam vets from all over the country planned to come together in D.C. to help other vets. With my brother in mind, the proposal of vets helping vets appealed to me.

  I felt a genuine need to help Jerry, even if it meant family disapproval. Too much unquestioned time had passed since his disappearance. Someone needed to take action and try to get some answers. As expected, it shocked my folks that I wanted to go to Washington, D.C. with VVAW. They constantly reminded me that we were not to talk publicly about any details of Jerry’s case.

  Randy would be two-years-old in June. I tried to imagine what my world would be like without him. I had come to understand Mama’s torment somewhat; not knowing what happened to your missing child must be hell on earth. I wanted the war to end. I wanted my family to be complete again. I wanted my son to know his Uncle Jerry. I wanted my brother home.

  It never crossed my mind that Jerry might not come back from Vietnam. He was young, healthy, strong, and vibrant. He showed no apprehension, or fear, about going off to war. If I had thought I might never see him again, I would have shared more private time; asked him to talk to me about his thoughts regarding the war. I’d have asked him if deep inside he really was afraid. Most of all, I would have taken the opportunity to tell Jerry that in spite of our lifelong fight for advantage over one another, I loved him. I never spoke those words, taking for granted he already knew, and naively assuming the opportunity would always be there.

  The only representative from Mississippi, I traveled to D.C. with the VVAW Arkansas delegation. We arrived at West Potomac Park on Sunday, April 18. There were over a thousand vets present. Most wore old military fatigue jackets with medals and decorations. World War II and Korean veterans were also present to show support. Each busload of new arrivals brought ovations and cheers. There were lots of hugs and “Welcome home, brothers!”

  I found myself envious of the kinship the vets felt towards one another. They laughed, shouted, and recalled ironic or amusing events that happened during the war. There were no tales of glory, but I overheard a vet describe in a low monotone how he first tasted fear and recognized the dead in a place where there was no time to say goodbye. Gathered as veterans, they stood as members of a unique brotherhood, linked by an eternal bond. For the first time ever, I was in the company of nonfamily members who understood what it meant to not know if someone you cared about was alive or dead. Their sincere interest told me they understood my need to know what had happened to Jerry, but no one pressured me for details I was not free to share. Encouraged, I nursed a faint hope of someday meeting a veteran who had information, someone who was with my brother the day he vanished. I felt at home with the vets, secure with the thought that we all wanted to “bring our brothers home.”

  Donna (third from right) marches with the VVAW in Washington, D.C, April 1971. AP Photo.

  “Dewey Canyon III,” named after the successful 9th Marine operation that blocked enemy access to the A Shau Valley in 1969, began the next day. Uplifted by camaraderie, we awoke the next morning and gathered to pay respect to the war dead buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Led by Gold Star Mothers who lost their sons in Vietnam, we marched across the Lincoln Memorial Bridge. The locked gates of Arlington instantly dismissed all euphoria. A wave of disappointment and resentment raced through the crowd. Military authorities refused VVAW permission to lay wreaths “due to the political nature of the demonstration.”

  The situation made no sense to me; each Vietnam vet had one friend, if not more, buried under a white cross in this National Cemetery. There was never any intention to disrespect the memorial, or the hallowed grounds, where veterans from all of the nation’s wars rest in peace. VVAW leaders attempted to reach a compromise with members of the 3rd U.S. Infantry, also known as “The Old Guard,” the Army’s official ceremonial unit. The Old Guard maintains a twenty-four hour vigil at the Tomb of the Unknowns, and provides military funeral escorts at Arlington National Cemetery. Their motto: “Soldiers never die until they are forgotten, Tomb guards never forget.” Negotiations failed to open the gates. Officials denied even the Gold Star mothers, war widows, and POW/MIA family members the opportunity to express grief. After a brief memorial ceremony conducted outside of the Cemetery, the VVAW procession marched toward the Capitol chanting, “Bring our brother’s home, bring ‘em home now!” For me, it was more than a chant; it was the sound of hope.

  VVAW participants were to make “a limited incursion into the country of Congress.” I first went with the Arkansas delegation to lobby their Congressman, but we found his office empty. The vets felt brushed off. The only practical alternative was to meet with his Congressional aide. Unable to answer any questions pertaining to the Veterans Administration (VA), the aide quickly turned the dialogue to war crimes. From what I gathered when I listened to various conversations in camp, the Vietnam vets tended to think war crimes by U.S. troops were isolated situations. The Arkansas vets didn’t attempt to deny the occurrence of atrocities in any war; however, they didn’t consider this the norm in Vietnam. After a roundtable discussion about alleged massacres, the aide, in reference to William Calley and My Lai, defined justice for us, “Well, it’s like this,” he said. “When you run a red light and get caught, you have to pay the price. If you don’t get caught, you don’t pay.” The vets exchanged incredulous looks, and declined to comment.

  The VVAW vets from Arkansas then accompanied me to the office of Mississippi Representative, G.V. “Sonny” Montgomery, who held a seat on two important House Committees: Armed Services and Veterans Affairs. One of the vets, whose nickname was “Gomer,” asked Montgomery to assist him with his VA claim. Committed to a military mental hospital due to combat related stress, the Army handed Gomer an honorable discharge along with a service-connected disability rating of one-hundred percent.

  As a civilian, he found himself angry and confused. Institutionalized on two occasions since release from the military, Gomer’s erratic behavior cost him his job, his wife and kids, and his dignity. In camp, Gomer admitted during a vet “rap session” that he instigated fights with bigger, stronger men because he felt he deserved physical punishment for having lived through Vietnam. Hurt and confused, he didn’t know why he did what he did, or how to stop. Other vets suggested he suffered guilt as a way to balance the books; this allowed him to atone for being a survivor.

  Gomer’s question pertained to the VA compensation due him, which had yet to arrive. Impatient, Montgomery glanced away. When he told us we were dirty, and chastised the vets for not wearing the U.S. uniform properly, Gomer’s eyes narrowed. I held my breath. He looked hard at Montgomery and coolly responded, “Sir, in ‘Nam we frequently went for months without ever seeing a mud hole, much less a shower. Sometimes our uniforms rotted off our bodies.”

  At this point Montgomery went into a tirade and shouted that he knew all about war; not only had he served in World War II and Korea, but had been to Vietnam on two jeep tours. No one had questioned his service record: the Bronze Star for capturing a German machine gun nest and the Combat Infantry Badge. His military record was what led the vets to assume he would be supportive of Gomer’s situation. Not so, instead Montgomery threatened to have us thrown out of his Congressional offices. Although provoked, the vets maintained their composure and we left peacefully.

  Vietnam vets fought, and watched their friends die, to protect their country. They at least deserved the opportunity to
talk to a U.S. Congressman about problems within the VA system. I found myself embarrassed that a Mississippi politician treated us like worthless bums. The vets took it all in stride. They were used to mistreatment - not only from government officials, but also by the public at large. To add insult to injury, Vietnam vets endured character assassinations by the same American public they had so willingly served. This censure produced the deepest wound of all.

  I was exasperated. Montgomery would not discuss the POW/MIAs, the very reason I had traveled to D.C. Profoundly disappointed by my first exposure to Washington politics; I realized there was no one to help Jerry return home except the Vietnam veterans.

  The next afternoon, word went around we wouldn’t be permitted to camp on the Mall again that night. The Supreme Court offered VVAW leaders an option. We could remain awake on the Mall and not be subject to arrest, or we could sleep and go to jail. The energy and determination of the vets amazed me. Not even slightly intimidated, the vets voted to sleep. At 4:30 PM, the deadline for VVAW to exit the Mall, an alarm clock rang over the microphone on the speaker’s platform. No U.S. Park Police were in sight. Hunger replaced tension as VVAW volunteers quickly set up a field mess and efficiently fed hundreds throughout the evening. People moved around from group to group and introduced themselves. Music played over the loudspeaker as everyone prepared to spend the night in tents.

  Occasionally, during the evening, a veteran would get on the bullhorn to pass along an announcement, or give updates on the permit situation. A few politicians stopped by to offer encouragement, but none stayed overnight. I could hardly sleep due to the buzz of activity; the air charged with energy and purpose. I felt good doing something worthwhile on Jerry’s behalf, instead of sitting home waiting and wondering.

  I found myself slightly apprehensive about the permit situation. No one dared to guess what might happen if Park Police tried to force the combat vets to leave the Mall. I tried to imagine a call home to my parents to tell them I was in jail for sleeping in a national park. I decided that even if we faced arrest, I was with the vets all the way. Fortunately, we slept without disturbance.

  When VVAW marched to the Capitol on Friday, another surprise awaited us. I didn’t want to believe what I saw in front of me. The steps to the Capitol were fenced off. Blocked from entering what was ordinarily a public place, an irate objection rumbled through the crowd. Protest turned to curiosity when someone moved forward to place a microphone next to the fence.

  I watched as John Kerry, spokesperson for VVAW, approached the microphone. He said a few words, and then threw a handful of military ribbons and awards across the fence. Kerry encouraged other vets to do the same. The mood shifted from anger to anguish. One vet told me when he approached the microphone, the short statement he had planned disappeared; instead, he saw the face of every G.I. buddy killed in Vietnam. Overwhelmed with emotion, many veterans openly cried.

  With no suitable words to offer, or medals to throw, I stepped up to the mike and offered to Congress all that I had, a name: “Jerry Elliott, Mississippi, missing-in-action, January 21, 1968. Bring him home!”

  Not wanting to be associated with the upcoming May 3rd protest by the Mayday Tribe, an antiwar activist group whose main purpose was to “shut the government down,” the next morning the vets broke camp and we departed the D.C. area.

  Names have long since escaped my memory, but I still remember the serious faces of the many vets I spoke with in D.C. that influential spring so long ago. Thoughtful, intelligent young men, focused on the needs of soldiers returning from Vietnam. Although VVAW vets didn’t wear squared away uniforms, they exhibited pride in service and deserved the respect they had earned. After being in the company of a thousand Vietnam vets, I realized that even though families might not always trust government officials concerning our POW/MIAs, we could trust the majority of Vietnam vets to do the right thing for their “brother” soldiers.

  Black Cat bunker, Khe sanh. Photo courtesy Black cat Assn.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Every Level

  In April 1972, after celebrating my twenty-first birthday with a night on the town, I headed to my parents house to collect Randy. Barely through the front door, Mama and Daddy eagerly told me about their unexpected visitors earlier in the evening. Two soldiers from Army Casualty had arrived unannounced. They requested my parents examine photos of unidentified U.S. POWs taken in Southeast Asia.

  Mama immediately recognized one of the photographs as Jerry; although she emphasized it had been over five years since she had seen her son. She “noted the profile, the receding hairline, the shape of the chin, low set ears, the neck, and the eyebrows.” Daddy was uncertain due to the poor quality of the photograph. Mama called one of her sisters to come right away and offer her opinion. After close examination, our aunt agreed it was indeed Jerry. Mama said if it was not her son in the photo, it was his double. After four years of no news at all since Jerry’s disappearance, she dared to hope again.

  Three months after their visit, LTC H. D. Evans, Chief, POW/MIA Branch, Casualty Division, requested an analysis of the photo our family members thought to be Jerry in the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) Pamphlet DI-365-5-72 Unidentified U.S. Prisoners of War in Southeast Asia. The following month, 2LT Glen Goff, of the Casualty Section, and CPT Charles Gibson, visited our home to show us more POW/MIA case photos to determine if we could again identify Jerry in any of the pictures. This time Cindy and I were present, along with Mama’s eldest brother and his wife. As in their previous visit, the photos were all black and white, grainy, and not of the best quality. We focused on three of the pictures, #10, #50, and especially #94. We all agreed with some certainty picture #94 looked like Jerry.

  Mama played hostess with cheerful enthusiasm that evening. After coffee and small talk, Goff and Gibson packed their files to leave. Daddy thanked the two soldiers for their time, acknowledged the demands of their job, and saw them to their car. Mama was certain the Army officers would be back. Only this time they would verify Jerry was a live POW in one of the pictures. Regrettably, there was no further communication concerning the photos.

  Unexpected news concerning the POW/MIAs would briefly lift our spirits. Then months, or even years, would pass with no further mention of Case 1000. This lack of communication precipitated the gradual, depressing slide back to despondency. This was our life now. We were powerless; all our family could do was to stay the course. We remained on alert for the next emotional roller coaster ride a letter, meeting, or official visit would trigger.

  On January 29, 1973, we received an official telegram from Robert F. Froehlke, Secretary of the Army. The cable informed us that Jerry’s name was not on the list of captured U.S. soldiers and civilians that the North Vietnamese presented to the Paris peace negotiators. He would not be coming home with the released prisoners of Operation Homecoming.

  Although we knew Jerry would not be on the plane when the POWs landed on February 12, 1973, we couldn’t help ourselves. We sat glued to the television during Operation Homecoming...just in case Jerry miraculously walked down the ramp. Our anticipation built as the long red carpet was unfurled and the aircraft hatch gradually opened. One after the other, the gaunt, frail looking soldiers smiled as they came slowly down the steps. Some stopped to kneel and kiss the ground as they set foot on American soil again. Children broke free from their mothers to run across the tarmac and throw their arms around fathers they hadn’t seen in years. Wounded warriors carried on stretchers, rallied to salute the American flag when carried past the honor guard. I will always remember the monumental applause and cheers for these courageous soldiers.

  Sincerely happy for the POW families that President Richard Nixon declared, “Some of the bravest people I have ever met,” it also hurt to watch the tender emotions of long awaited reunions. The war was over for these combatants; but we still didn’t know what had happened to Jerry. Whether or not we would ever see him again, or even know if he was alive or dead, raised
a question that would continue to tear our family apart long after the war ended. As Civil War General William T. Sherman wisely said, “War is hell.”

  Operation Homecoming was like Pandora’s Box. When all the sorrow and misery found release, there was only one thing left in the bottom of the box...hope. We lived on the knife-edge, between the dream world in which Jerry came home, and the stark contrast of reality.

  Marine PFC Ronald Ridgeway was on patrol outside the Khe Sanh Combat Base on February 25, 1968, when the NVA attacked. Overwhelmed, the Marines were forced to retreat and leave their dead behind. Finally able to get back to the battle site, they found American remains scattered over the hillside by the carnage of war. Troops recovered what they thought to be the bodies of nine dead Marines. Declared Killed-In-Action (KIA), Ridgeway’s family placed him at rest with other members of his platoon in a mass grave in St. Louis. Five years later, Ronald Ridgeway walked off a plane at Clark AFB during Operation Homecoming.

  Even though the North Vietnamese insisted they held no more American POWs, Ridgeway’s return made us wonder how many other American soldiers presumed to be dead had actually been captured, and possibly remained captive in Southeast Asia. With the war essentially over, time became a critical issue for the POW/MIA families. Aware direct contact with North Vietnam would gradually slip away, concern shifted to how much time, energy, and expense the government would dedicate to account for a missing American soldier once the war officially ended.